The Forgotten
by RenaRoo
Summary: Other things may change us, but we start and end with family. -Anthony Brandt
1. Fire: The Forgotten

I'm testing narrative techniques. Please tell me what you think. This one won't be very long. It's three chapters and already completed so... let's get started!

TMNT © Viacom  
story © Turtlefreak121

**The Forgotten**

Chapter One: Fire

The Forgotten One could feel no sympathy for the rage of others for he was consumed by his own. He should have known that it was a mistake for him to leave his home that day. The fire of hurt was still burning in his chest. He was bound to run into something more infuriating the minute he left.

So, of course, he found an excuse to vent not far from there.

Crouched, poised for attack, he was on the very edge of his building perch. He was masked by his own invisibility and using his curse very much to his advantage. The ones he watched from above never noticed his presence.

He was completely Forgotten.

The two dressed as though they were escaped from a gothic circus freak show gathered about a young man. The young man was juvenile, perhaps even younger than the Forgotten One, and while dressed in decent attire was surely not carrying more than the leftovers of the day's lunch money.

That bit of information did not stop the advance of the freak shows, however, for they were local terrorists. Their power and amusement could only come from such horror as was suffered by the juvenile or the pain that was felt by those like the Forgotten One.

That was what truly sealed their fate in his eyes.

"I don't have much money. Leave me alone," the good track child said, flattening his tone to hide the turmoil within.

"We don't give a shit," the tallest of the freak shows responded.

The Forgotten One had to agree. He did not give a shit either.

Before another move could have been made by the three below, the Forgotten One was upon them in a blazing wrath. He ripped through the two circus clowns with solid, well practiced thrusts and sent them flying in opposite directions.

For that moment he was face to face with the juvenile who had been drained of all his face's blood in the meantime. The boy who had once puffed his chest out like a man to face the anticipated muggers was now shriveling like a fetal child.

He aspired for the invisibility that the Forgotten One was so deeply injured and cursed with every day.

"Get the hell out," the Forgotten snapped in response to the cowardice before him. He felt sickened by the hope that this boy so clearly demonstrated. Since he had been Forgotten it was difficult to face anyone who wished such a fate upon themselves.

Fortunately for the boy he was not terrified beyond the ability to move and immediately escaped the presence of the flaming Forgotten One. He was spared from anger raging from his shadow frame.

Instead the Forgotten One turned toward the common variety freaks of the streets. One lay slumped in a pile of his own misery and groaned lowly. He was down for the count and of no use for the Forgotten One's vengeful outburst.

The other, however, stood. He stood and looked around with the bugged out eyes of a frightened bird, a rooster chased by a fox. His talon like fingers curled about, scratching at the brick as the Forgotten approached him. No doubt the scum wished to slither back into the holes of the earth he crawled out of.

The Forgotten was all too willing to assist him.

"You like picking on someone smaller and weaker than you?" the chilling voice of a vengeance bound Forgotten questioned. "Just because you can do it?"

"Please don't hurt me."

Request was ignored.

The Forgotten One grinned a crooked, wide grin. "I like to do things just 'cuz I can, too."

Before another word could be uttered by either party, the bridge of the other's nose found itself crushed between the two knuckles of the Forgotten's fist and it ended the feat with a roaring applause which sounded off with _POP._ A spew of red blanketed the Forgotten's hand but he did not stop there.

Weapons were not used because it was obvious that they were not necessary. Instead each moment was savored and he took great joy in the fact that they directly came from his actions.

There was more than one time in which the freak show, a kid himself as it would end up, reached for his breast pocket. It was an action not to be trusted because the Forgotten knew that anything could be secreted within it. He imagined hand guns and knives, arsenal of all sorts waited within the pocket.

At one point, the Forgotten One thought that perhaps the boy would not be capable of reaching for anything but it was not enough. He had to pay.

He was a sinful child but not only that but he was a sinful child who was _known; _something unfair to the Forgotten One who no longer existed despite committing no crime. The gravity of some other deficiency had masked his identity, though, for the life of him, he could not figure out what or _why._

Lost in his thoughts, the Forgotten was no longer paying attention to the repercussions of his actions and continued the assault on the villain within his hands.

It was only when another fist came from the back of the alley and met with the beak of the Forgotten did he stop. He fell onto his side, completely caught off guard, but his flame was not quailed. He was more enraged.

He was, at least, until he saw the owner of the fist.

The vigilante pulled the mask off his head and stared coldly at the Forgotten One. He had knowing eyes and, for a moment, the Forgotten One felt as though he was seen rather than seen _through. _It was unfortunately a feeling that could not make up for his pain.

"What are you doing, Casey?" he demanded.

"Me?" the friend questioned angrily. "What the hell are _you _doing? Trying to see how far you can grind your fist into that guy's skull?"

The Forgotten stood and stared at the punk below as he reached into his pocket and produced a simple cell phone.

"He was ganging up with his pal over there to beat up a kid just for walking by!" the Forgotten One defended. "And you know why they were going to do it, Casey? Just because it was some kid on the street. Because they could. Because they could do it and then Forget about the kid and everything they had done to him. Like he wasn't even part of their lives."

Then Casey did something unexpected.

Grabbing onto the brim of the Forgotten's shell, he dragged him off, away from the alley and his babbling, and forcing him along. He was going to make the Forgotten remember a similar experience in which the rolls were in reverse.

"You're going too far and you're going to tell me why," Casey stated.

The Forgotten One doubted it highly. His closest friend could never truly understand what was being felt but at least he would be there to talk to.

All the Forgotten One knew was that he needed to vent else he would suffocate in the furious fire that burned at his soul constantly.

He was not initially impressed with Casey's presence. On the midnight raids of the streets it was common to find the vigilante out and about. It was how they met. Usually Casey simply join in and did his best to keep up in the pursuits against crime.

That night, as he had the last several nights, Casey's approach was much more subtle and tender hearted. He was attempting to act like an older brother. The Forgotten One did not need another older brother, though.

There, as they sat on the edge of a building, hiding in the cluster of gargoyles and statues, the pace began to pick up between them. It was the first time in a long time that he had felt like things were the way they were before he was Forgotten.

That was the way Casey intended it to be, though.

"I haven't seen ya go that far in a long time, pal," Casey said lowly. He was doing his best to not come across as scolding but it simply made the realization more harsh. "I mean, that was some serious anger yar showing there. It kinda scared me."

He huffed in reply and leaned back into the shadows of a flightless figure. He mixed into the darkness and became nonexistent yet again. "Yeah. I got a little ticked."

"Only a little?" Casey continued.

"I don't want to talk about it so don't even try."

"You've _got _to talk about it and y'know it," Casey responded fiercely with a point of an accusing finger. "It's eating you up inside and the only way you're trying to get rid of it really isn't helping. Is it? You've got to talk about it, don't you?"

"What of it?" he asked lowly. "You're expecting me to talk to _you? _Because last I remember you were sockin' me one."

Somewhat shameful, Casey secreted his grin at the reference. It was not often that he got to sneak up on him and it was even less often that he got one up on the Forgotten. He shrugged it off but could see in the Forgotten's glare that apologies were in order. "Okay, sorry about that one," he said with a certain amount of remorse. "I didn't know how else to get your attention. You were pretty much in the zone of kicking that guy's ass."

"Don't tell me he didn't deserve it either," he defended.

"I won't," Casey continued with a sigh before glancing off. "I'll say you're avoiding talking about it, though. Don't try to deny it either. You've been beating around the bush ever since we got here instead of just telling me how you feel."

The attacks were becoming less and less subtle. The Forgotten, while lost to memory himself, recalled almost immediately how they had been led down this trail before. It was all cultivating in the subject he had been running from for the entire night.

Still, the question was asked, "What exactly am I avoiding then?"

The vigilante sighed and shook his head, placing his own mask back upon his brow, obscuring the brotherly face the Forgotten had leaned upon. "You're avoiding what's going on with Master Splinter. Was today a bad day or something?"

"I'm not avoiding him!" he snapped immediately, surprised himself with how he did not take well to the supposed insult. "Why would you even think that?"

Casey snorted, creating a strange muffled stutter behind his mask, and shook his head. "Because you're not down there with the others right now. That and you're acting like something's been biting at your tail the entire time."

"Huh," was all he could produce, incapable of producing the same fiery rage that he felt beforehand. Once it was pointed out that he had been directing it in the wrong directions an old mental guard returned, calming him.

It was something he learned from his father.

"I'm not gonna corner ya and make you spill your guts," Casey said as gently as he could manage before standing up and heading out. "But if this is over what I think it is you'll need ta talk about it soon. And when you do, I'll be around."

He watched as his friend left and remained quietly on the edge of the building. Casey was not completely right for the Forgotten was surrounded by the shadows and artificial lights of the city about him. The warm glows struck through the darkness with the false promises of removing him from the darkness.

They lied, though. He remained there for the rest of the night and found that he was no more removed from the shadows of obscurity than he was from the time he first arrived.

Still he sat and waited for the rage to strike up the same fire it once contained.

…

A/N: Update Wednesday

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	2. Ice: The Remembered

TMNT © Viacom  
story © Turtlefreak121

**The Forgotten  
Ice: The Remembered**

Lowering into the sewers was like submerging into a cold pool. Had the torch he had been carrying in his heart not already been extinguished it would have died as he entered the tunnels. The frigid air was inescapable.

He longed for the surface and yet he knew he could not remain there much longer.

The Forgotten could not forget his own responsibilities, try as he might.

Moving through the numbing sewer trenches he questioned why the world around him could be so warm, cradled by the mantle of the earth, while he was left eclipsed by all heat. He who had once been ablaze was now utterly chilled, frozen.

He felt as though he was solid all the way through and, because of this, his body was heavier, his muscles harder to move with his brittle bones. It all urged him to return to the surface where at least the illusion of light could amuse him.

Instead he was forced forward, onward into a phase of what he felt could only be described as nothingness.

The Forgotten knew better, though. The more he approached the destination the less and less he could deny the familiar setting and the beckoning doorway which all whisper icily in his ear _Welcome Home_ in its infuriating sarcasm.

He was no fool. He could not be so easily refer to the house as a _home_ when it could not even remember his name.

Regardless of anger, frustration, and pathos, his body was still solid and his path still uncertain. Why had he returned to this cold place? Why had he left the streets? Was it truly because he did not want the Others to worry or was it because he was worried about the Others?

The Others were the Remembered. Immediately upon entering they had their distinctive faces, blooming personalities, and, most importantly, unForgettable names. They were individuals and because of that they were the Remembered.

Entering and watching them move in their own, uniquely characteristic ways simply reminded him why they were so much more deserving of titles and memories rather than he, the Forgotten. They moved about, ignoring his existence.

Or, perhaps, not realizing his existence at all.

Oddly enough, though, he could only count two when there were three of the Remembered. The mystery took his focus for a moment and he gladly removed himself from the pathetic thoughts of how utterly sad he had become.

"Where's Leo?" the Forgotten questioned. His tone was flat, as though the cold had drained him of his emotion. This was a most fearful concept considering how it was his emotion which defined him even as the Forgotten.

Without emotion had he truly become nothing more than a mere shadow?

"Where do you think?" Donatello replied.

The Remembered brother, while kept in memory because of his character, was acting unusual. He was most unlike himself and the only true explanation for this was that he was disgusted with the presence of the Forgotten.

Simple enough. Perhaps the Forgotten even deserved such treatment.

The question could not be kept from being pressed, however. The Forgotten, while disappointed in the unsightly reaction, could not really hold it against his Remembered brother. Instead, he just looked over Michelangelo's couch lounging and toward the doorway to a room where the light still warmly shone from within.

Sure enough he could see his last Remembered brother set before a wrinkled, crooked mass, worn with age and untidy from a bout of disease. The clumps of matted fur shook without sync as his trembling hands fumbled over the priceless antiques set before them.

Like a good Remembered, Leonardo clamored, stealthily, to keep utter disaster from taking place. The old rodent was none the wiser.

The Forgotten scowled and shook his head at what could only truly be considered a pathetic sight. Certainly it was among the most pathetic he had ever seen. It was only made more degrading by the simple fact that hours beforehand, when he first left, the Forgotten had seen that Leonardo was in that very position.

"Doesn't he realize he's kept Leo in there all day?" he questioned lowly.

There was no response and the stale silence caused him to glance in the direction of his two present brothers. The Remembered were not highly amused with this remark and turned from him angrily, fully aware that the comment was deserved to say the least.

Still, they began to ignore him, Forget him, and he could not help but lash out. He slammed his fist into the brick pillar not far from where Donatello sat and watched as the skin over the knuckles shattered on impact. He had not realized that in the coldness of the home his skin had become as brittle as it was and he leaned his head on the pillar for support.

He was too cold and numb to feel the pain or throbbing. Instead he just watched as Donatello got up and glared at the injury.

"Why do you do stupid stuff like that? Jesus!" he growled before whipping around, grabbing the nearby first-aid supplies. He ripped out gauze with expert speed and cut the precise amount. He dabbed alcohol on the cotton balls and the Forgotten could not help but laugh at the care his brother was not taking.

He moved with cold shoulders, stiff as though they were frozen, and worked on the injured limb. Donatello did not say anything, rather, he spoke through his movements and the frozen touch of his skin.

The Remembered, so much like the Forgotten, was as warm as an old corpse fresh from the morgue.

It was the home that was making them so cold, he knew it. The Forgotten studied the movements and how they all secretly fought off the cold which nipped at their skin, aching their joints and ate away at their liveliness.

Even Michelangelo, who had ignored the scene beforehand, came to his Forgotten brother's aid with worry eating away at his once pleasant, round features. He glanced at the wounds for the last few moments before they were tightly wrapped, and then to the Forgotten's face.

"Why are you acting like that?" he asked in hushed whispers. "Can't you wait until later?"

"How much later can I wait?" the Forgotten retorted before taking back his hand by force. "I've been gone for hours, since dinner, and came back when it was so dark topside it was sheer _black._ And you know what? He's _still_ there bothering Leo."

"Leo doesn't mind," Don spoke up, staring hard at the Forgotten's unforgiving features. "You didn't used to mind either."

"Yeah, but that's before it got old," he responded as his brow furrowed further. He looked to them both. "I don't get you two. It's not getting better. It's getting worse. I wanted to help but now I can't. No one can. It's so stupid to even try to think of ways to help because nothing's going to work."

He paused, feeling a chill yet again. It was like being lost in the midst of a blizzard. It happened so suddenly and yet, looking back, he was surprised he had not seen it coming. The quiet was like being trapped in their icy grips, needing them before he could get out.

"We know," Mike finally stammered.

"Then why aren't you all angry?" he demanded. "Why isn't _everyone_ angry that this shit always happens to us?" _To me._

They looked off, still tired. Still quiet. They were so cold, there was no fire to fight with or for. They simply admitted their defeat to it and bowed their heads. The cold was like mourning on a rainy day.

"I'm too tired to be angry," Don responded at last.

"There's no reason to anymore," Mike stated.

In a sense this was true. When the rage burned itself out and seared all those that stood in its path, there was no true relief. Rather, the oxygen was consumed to where they could not breathe and no longer could they question _why them. _Rather, they would find themselves without heat, strangely burnt out, so that only coldness overtook them.

Ultimately, they would find themselves where they started with no injuries healed by anger.

It did not make the truth any more unsettling, however. It did not make the pain of being Forgotten any less stinging. Rather, it made it all the more obvious and worthless.

Together the Forgotten and the Remembered looked toward the room at unexpected motion. The table was suddenly lacking a host and the lights were dimmed to a single candle's light. In the dark blue tint of paper walls a lone son moved, another Remembered.

He seemed sad and tired but more importantly than that he seemed as though something was taken from him, stripped away from the confidence he once had.

Slowly, Leonardo emerged with a distinct look of disappointment and loss.

He was Forgotten, too.

…

A/N: Thanks to everyone who's read&reviewed thus far. It means a lot.

Feedback Appreciated


	3. Light: The Father

TMNT © Viacom  
story © Turtlefreak121

**The Forgotten**

Light: The Father

It was one of the few times in which the Forgotten truly wished he could forget for himself. Memories were such a burden, particularly those which carried the reminder of responsibility. Here he was, nearly grown, already Forgotten, and all he longed for were the younger days in which memories were still being made and responsibilities did not exist.

He sat at his table and stared at the brothers who passed him by. Remembered brothers like Michelangelo and Donatello scowled slightly, reminding him as though his own memories of responsibility was not enough, and attempting to guilt him into entering the room.

In contrast, the newly Forgotten brother walked about somewhat thoughtlessly. He was in search for an identity that had been lost the minute he was Forgotten.

The veteran in the Forgotten realm thought for a minute about telling him that wandering about the small, icy Lair was no way to find his identity. The only hopes of happiness rested in the vacant lies of the surface. They were false but when one closed their eyes they could see the light again.

Slowly he felt himself move and groaned inwardly. He did not _want _to do what happened next but he had to. It was a necessity and he could not overlook it. So he walked forward and ignored the halfway glances of the others.

He entered the room and stared at the Father who was waiting for him or, more accurately, _anyone_ to enter his domain.

Splinter had been a father, a master, and a confidant to each and every one of the three sons since years before. He was strong, loving, and strict. He bypassed many of the traps and, despite all odds, actually saw through to the fact that his adopted children, turtles which owed him their lives more times over than they could ever hope to remember, were strong and capable of surviving a world which did not need or want them.

It was he who had given them the opportunity to be individuals and it was a responsibility he did not take lightly. Not then nor now.

In his care, however, he could not have foreseen that in providing individuality for his sons he could have so very easily taken it away. No one foresaw this power to destroy and now that it had happened, the Forgotten was not so sure he could forgive him.

Still, the Father welcomed him with a smile, as if to show that he was still somewhere within the erect body, alive and conscious. Even this attempt, though, could not evade the fact that something deep within his gaze provided the saddening truth. He was not fully there.

Something was missing from the Father that the unidentifiable child missed dearly.

"I'm supposed to check and see if you want anything to eat," he spoke up slowly, watching the eyes of Splinter very carefully. He needed to see if there was even the smallest chance of seeing his father again.

Yet there was nothing. He was not recognized by the old rat.

"Not at this time, my son," was all that the former master could manage to say.

It took everything in him to not snort at the comment. Truly, the Forgotten almost laughed at the shear awkwardness of the statement. _My son_, he said. _My son, my unnamed, unworthy, _truly_ unremembered son._

What had once been such a dear name, a monicker of shear affection, was a remarkable slap to his face. It no longer meant endearment as much as it meant that he was nameless, one of many. It was pathetic.

He looked about and frowned, his fingers tracing over the nearest dresser. It was an old thing, something recovered from another man's trash. It was worthless and yet within its drawers laid everything that was held dear by the old rat including several spices, herbs, and tea leaves. It was a collection an apothecary would have envied.

"Well, you want tea or something?" the Forgotten questioned.

The question was really more out of manners than anything else and he could see immediately the mistake in asking it. A shamed look came to the Father's face at the question and the Forgotten realized that he had not remembered to ask when _he_ was the host.

It was not a milestone, however. Splinter had Forgotten worse by that point and slowly the surprise faded from his face. Instead he smiled softly, still inviting, and shook his head. "No, that is fine, my son. Let us play checkers instead."

The Forgotten felt his frown stiffen and he sighed, looking away. "No, that's cool. It's been too long since the last time I played. I really wouldn't know what to do," he lied. He figured it would be near impossible for someone to actually forget how to play checkers. He did not want to play, though, and Splinter bought the excuse.

That only left the question of what to do with him now for the next few hours.

"You are so very angry, my son," the Father said quietly. "I have sensed so since the first time you entered my room. You are angry at me, but why?"

Strangely enough, the son thought back to the first time he played checkers with his father. They sat at the ends of the small coffee table. He liked that coffee table, it was lost when their home had been invaded by Mousers. When they played for the first time, the Forgotten was nearly nine and had avoided playing the game with any of his family. His brothers feared his tantrums and his father had never been that close before then.

Instead they sat there and stared at one another. Their hands waved over their pieces before each move, trying so hard to win. The son felt that he had to win else he would never be able to control his anger at that point. He hated to lose. So did his father. Only Don had ever beaten him at the game of wits and so, on his first time, he was inexperienced.

He barely left the first quarter of the board before his father managed to beat him. Yet there was no real explosion or anger. He was disappointed but not because he lost. He wanted to prove to his father that he was every bit as smart and worthy as his brothers. He wanted the game to be the day Splinter looked back on and say "That was when I _really_ knew who my son was."

Looking back to his father, seeing the old rat look at him confused and speechless, he knew that the memory was nowhere in his mind. How could it be when he had Forgotten the son the memory was shared with?

"I ain't mad at you," he responded quietly. "I'm just mad because things aren't the way they're supposed to be."

"I believe you water down your feelings, my son," Splinter sighed and looked to his crossed hands. "It is my failing health and absence of memory that bothers you so deeply. I sense it as clearly as I can sense you in this room."

The Forgotten did not reply. He just watched and wished he had been anywhere but there at that moment. He did not want to cause the Father pain no matter how angry he might have been toward the old rat. He loved him.

He loved the memory of him.

"I feel small," the Forgotten at last responded. "I don't feel like I hate you. I feel like I'm too small to get closer to you and that's what I want. I want to feel like you are here for me to hug and tell my secrets to again. I want to feel like I matter like when I was a little kid that needed you to scoop me up in your arms."

"You are angered by the fact that I cannot remember your name?" he asked.

"YES!" he exploded before rubbing his face. "I don't know what I am if my father can't remember me. Who am I if my father doesn't know? You know everything, Master Splinter. You always have. But I'm Forgotten and I don't know why. It hurts me to try to think of a reason for why."

"Perhaps this is because there is no reason," the Father responded before weakly standing, his once small clothes hanging for him like tattered robes. He looked like he had shrunk and, in a sense, over the past weeks he had. "None we can help in any case, my son." He paused before quivering his whiskers.

Then, unlike it had in weeks, a peace came over his face and he smiled to his son. "It is not something you should worry about, _Raphael."_

The turtle looked at his father's face and lowered his head. "You have no idea how much I needed to hear that, Dad. No idea."

Unable to restrain the feelings, he held his hands to his face and shook, his eyes watering without pause. It was then that he felt the warm embrace of someone who he had desperately searched for but only then found.

Raphael hugged his father back. "I'm sorry I thought you forgot me," Raph whispered.

"No, I apologize for not being in the state you need me to be, Raphael, but it cannot be helped," the old master responded in gentle whispers. "I am sorry that my mind is not right in these days but do take my word for it, my son, names and dates can be Forgotten in this terrible time but not the love of the son I have and always will adore."

"I know," Raphael admitted somberly. "I don't want to feel like I don't exist, though."

"You will always exist," Splinter stated gently. "Please remember to keep the kings in the back of your line so that they will always be reserved. Kings are what really matter."

Raph nodded. "I always will. All four."

…

A/N: Written in honor of my great-grandmother and my grandmother who carried the memories on for her.


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